


Voice of Despair

by still_lycoris



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Psychological Torture, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_lycoris/pseuds/still_lycoris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of "Assassin". Avon isn't sure how much of Servalan's ownership he can take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voice of Despair

She wasn’t going to feed him again.

Avon wasn’t terribly surprised. Lack of food was a classic torture technique, like disrupting sleep and disorientation. He would have done the same, in her position. Although he would never have been in her position. He would never do _this_ , not to anyone. He had limits. Servalan did not.

His stomach hurt. How long had it been since he’d been here? He’d been trying to keep track of the days but she’d put a stop to that too, waking him at random hours, moving him from room to room with no obvious purpose, deliberately mentioning conflicting star dates in front of him to muddle his mind. He faintly thought it might have been a month now. Maybe a little longer.

Maybe a lot longer.

_Why haven’t they come for me?_

He slammed the thought down as viciously as he could. He wouldn’t think like that. He didn’t _need_ the others to come for him. He didn’t care if they never came. He had to rely on himself, in the end you always had to rely on yourself, if knew that, he’d known it for years so why was he letting these pathetic thoughts crawl into his mind?

He had tried to escape, twice now. The first time, she’d just tied him up and left him in the dark for a long time, no food, no water. Then she’d come and been _nice_ to him, far worse than anything else because the dark loneliness had been in his head by then, he’d been itching for stimulation, anything at all, and she’d been there and she’d talked to him and it would have been so easy to give up, to treat her like an ally and not the murdering slaver that she was.

The second time, she’d got all of her people together, stripped him naked and had him whipped. His back still ached from the stripes. He had tried to count them but the pain had been too much and it had felt like it was going to go on forever, more and more pain until he’d finally lost consciousness. And when he’d woken, the pain had been worse, far worse and he knew they’d continued to beat him even when he wasn’t awake to scream.

Servalan had played it well, of course. She’d applied soothing creams to his back herself, made kind noises of sympathy and concern. Oh, intellectually he could see the trick in it but emotionally, he’d craved it, the kindness, the gentleness of the touch. It had taken all his will to resist surrender then. All his strength to remind himself that it was a lie, that she had caused this pain, that she would cause him more pain.

He wasn’t sure that will would survive a second beating.

But then, he was probably too weak to escape at the moment. He’d need to build his strength up, except that he just couldn’t bring himself to. To beg, to plead, to surrender …

Perhaps it was just that he wasn’t sure escape was possible any more. Except for the ultimate way out, of course.

Avon had wondered about that. Would Servalan let him starve himself to death if he was too stubborn to give in? No, he doubted it. She would wait for him to pass out, then fill him full of nutrients and then begin the process again. She would probably enjoy it. Of course she could.

God, he hated her.

“Avon.”

He twisted his head to glare her, cursing himself for being so tangled in his thoughts that he hadn’t even heard her enter. She was wearing one of her more revealing gowns today. He often tried to work out if there was a pattern to the clothes, if they were selected to try and get different reactions from him. It gave him something to think about, something to focus on. Something aside from the shame and the hate.

“Are we feeling better behaved today?” she asked sweetly.

Yesterday – had it been yesterday? – he had spat at her and called her a whore. He didn’t feel good about it. It was a weak attack, a worthless one. She’d laughed and ruffled his hair and he’d hated himself for not grabbing her wrist and trying to break it. Only her other hand had been holding that cursed remote for the slave collar she’d put on him and one blast from that would have had him reeling in agony and he wasn’t sure he could cope, not right now.

(and maybe a part of him had wanted the gentle touch, wanted something kind and God, he hated it, he _loathed_ this weakness that was burning inside him, it was harder and harder to ignore it and it was _pathetic_.)

“Come along,” Servalan ordered, snapping her fingers at him. Avon considered refusing but she would only get the guards to drag him. Slowly, he got to his feet and limped behind her through the corridors of the ship. The world seemed to be swaying slightly, the walls twisting at the corners of his vision. He was so hungry.

She took him to her private rooms, as always.. It was beautiful in there, soft, warm, richly decorated. She’d promised him that he could stay there, once he proved he would behave. He hated the part of him that longed for it, longed to curl up quietly on the soft carpet and just not have to _think_.

She had a meal all set out on her table, far more than she needed for just herself. Avon could feel his mouth water at the sight of it. His stomach ached. Just something, anything …

“Kneel down.”

Wearily, he sank onto his knees at her side. There was no point fighting, not that. When he’d refused, early on, she’d made him stand for hours, had him struck when his legs had given way beneath him. It was easier to kneel, even when it made him hate himself.

He always loathed himself when it came to drinking. He had broken so early there. Servalan had bought him a _bowl_ , a dog bowl with his name painted on it and told him that if he didn’t lap from that, he got nothing. He’d resisted for a day and a half and he told himself he would have resisted for longer only he’d lost his balance and basically fallen face first and when the water had been on his lips, it had been too much. He couldn’t not drink. He just couldn’t.

Servalan placed the bowl in front of him and Avon leaned over it at once, lapping at the water. He didn’t try to hold the bowl with his hands to make it easier. Servalan had made it clear that she wouldn’t have that. Another thing he wasn’t fighting her over.

When he’d finished every drop, he sat back on his heels, not looking at Servalan. He could hear her eating, smell the food and it was physically painful. He was so _hungry_ , so desperately hungry. Just a crumb, that was all, he would have given almost anything …

“Avon.”

He was trembling, he realised, trembling hard enough that she had noticed. He squeezed his fingers into fists, trying to control himself. She was looking down at him, her face a mask of concern.

“Just ask, Avon. Just ask and you can have anything you want.”

_Just_. No, she didn’t want him to just ask, she wanted him to _beg_ , to give up another little piece of his dignity. And then she’d feed him scraps from her fingers and worst of all, he’d _like_ it because he was so hungry and getting so desperate for just something, _anything_ …

“I want … ” he said, his voice cracked in his throat. “I want … ”

“Yes?”

“I want you to _go to hell!_ ” he spat out and he lunged at her, stupid and futile and full of hate, just wanting to hit her and hurt her until she was nothing, until she had suffered every pain that he had. But she hit the remote at once and agony blazed down his spine like fire and he was on the floor, gasping and crying out from it because it hurt, it hurt so much, it was like being killed and he wished it was, he wished he were dying because then it would all be over and he would be free – 

The pain stopped. He was curled on the floor, his knees pressed to his face, hands over his head as though he expected an attack. His body ached from the spasms that had wracked him. He didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay here forever, he just wanted it all not to be real …

“Oh Avon, that was ridiculous,” Servalan said, her voice kindly. “You know that.”

She stroked the back of his neck lightly with her fingernails. Avon bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to stay still. It didn’t feel good. It _didn’t_ feel good. He wouldn’t let his body betray him like this, he just wouldn’t, he would fight and fight and fight every single step because he was Kerr Avon and he was _better_ than this, better than all of this!

“You could make it so easy,” Servalan murmured. “You could make this so much easier, Avon. I don’t like hurting you.”

He let himself laugh at that. Of course she liked hurting him. She _loved_ hurting him. She was loving every moment of his resistance, every moment of his struggle. She wanted him to break slowly and tortorousely, she wanted to watch every moment of it. And then she would dispose of him because he would be worthless to her once he was nothing more than a shattered slave.

Servalan laughed too. She dug her nails into his neck and Avon obeyed the unspoken command, clawing his way back onto his knees. He stared at her and she leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips were soft and he couldn’t stop himself leaning into it, kissing back. He wanted. He wanted to be held, he wanted to be kissed and touched and he wanted – 

_No!_

He yanked his head back, twisting away from Servalan’s hands. She laughed again and stood up, moving to the door. Avon stayed where he was, digging his hands into the carpet.

“Take him to his dark room,” Servalan said to the guards outside. “Don’t give him any water.”

Avon could have cried. He forced himself to his feet before the guards grabbed him and let himself be pulled through the corridors. He couldn’t keep on his feet. Everything hurt too much. Letting them drag him would hurt more later but he couldn’t do anything about it.

They threw him into the cell and slammed the door, casting him into darkness. Avon crept backwards until he found the wall, then curled up there, pressing his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes tight shut.

_Why haven’t they come for me yet?_

He dug his nails into the side of his head.

_Shut up, shut up! They haven’t come because they don’t care about you, they don’t care, nobody cares and that’s life, that’s what you do, you look out for yourself you stupid, stupid fool!_

_Servalan cares_ the little voice of his despair whispered. _She only cares because she wants to win but she cares. She wants you. She wants to use you but you can give her that, just a little, you could make it work. You could give her that …_

The voice had been whispering for a while now. It was getting louder. Avon wasn’t sure how long he could control it for. 

He kept his eyes closed. He just had to stay strong. Just a little longer. If he could stay strong a little longer, it would be all right. Somehow. Somehow, it would be all right.

It was just that he was no longer sure how.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 livejournal challenge 12dayschristmas


End file.
